Now it was Jenny's turn to raise an eyebrow. She simply pointed, though with her twisted finger it was hard to decide just what I was supposed to be looking at.
"She killed him in the kitchen?" I asked.
"Not exactly." Again, the dramatic pause. "Come with me, and I'll show you."
I swear that when she spoke those words, there was a twinkle in her eyes.
Entering the kitchen was like stepping into another house. No spooks hung on the walls. Instead they were papered with the staring faces of seven men, each of them pituitarily challenged.
That wasn't the end of it. Above the stove, a large-eared plastic elephant with a pendulous swinging proboscis did double duty as a clock and an objet d'art; the breakfast table was covered with an Alice in Wonderland tablecloth and set with Mad Hatter cups and saucers; an electric blender covered with what appeared to be a hand-crocheted Donald Duck cozy sat on a counter top lined with plates featuring the faces of a dozen cartoon characters I couldn't put names too. Besides that, I spotted Chip 'n' Dale salt and pepper shakers, a Goofy cookie jar, and a telephone that was cradled in the unmoving grasp of a world famous four-fingered rodent wearing a pair of spotless white gloves.
Jenny's voice was a whisper. "This is where I made my calls to the chief." She stroked Mickey Mouse's gleaming plastic head, ran her fingers over his big black ears. "My husband and I so loved Mickey." She said it as if the three of them had been close personal friends. "Howard gave me this phone when they were first introduced. Oh, it used to make him laugh so, just to look at it."
At that moment I felt like I had something in common with Howard Duncan, because I was having a hard time choking back laughter myself. Not only did the image of this little old lady reporting a murder over a Mickey Mouse phone strike me as completely bizarre, there was the added knowledge that this room was some kind of crazy gold mine.
In case you don't know, there's an entire Disney memorabilia industry. The things people throw money at. Somehow, it always amazes me. But I didn't have time for it. I wasn't here to moon over Mickey waffle irons, or whatever.
Jenny Duncan opened a drawer and extracted a large, stainless steel butcher knife. "This is what Debbie used."
"She stabbed your husband?"
The old woman's painted lips trembled. "No. Debbie pushed him down the stairs." Suddenly, she dropped the knife into the sink and slouched against the counter, nearly toppling the Goofy cookie jar. I caught her — and it— just in time.
Jenny fought for control and lost the battle. She wept, her mascara streaming in black rivulets over her wrinkled cheeks. I pulled her close, her rouge and lipstick making a mess of my white shirt.
"It's okay, Jenny," I said. "It's okay."
"No... it's not," she whimpered. "Debbie murdered her father. And later she... she went to work with that butcher knife. She had a large box of freezer bags, and she... Oh, damn... she sold her own father, piece by piece!"
We were having a nice cup of tea from the Mad Hatter teapot. Jenny had wiped her face on a dalmatian-spotted towel. I have to say that she looked better without the makeup. For the first time, she seemed real to me.
But the things she was saying didn't seem real at all.
"You have to believe me, Detective Raymond... Damn, I mean you have to believe me, Ray.” She sighed. "I know I must seem like a senile old fool. I would have spoken up when it happened, but Debbie has had me on tranquilizers. She says that the doctor insisted. Hah!" Jenny downed her tea in one gulp. "But I showed her. On the night of the funeral, I hid the pills under my tongue... just like a character in one of my Howard's stories. And then I crept downstairs, ever so quietly. My poor Howard was laid out on the kitchen floor like a jigsaw puzzle... bits of him in clear plastic bags." She raised the butcher knife as if she were a lawyer presenting Exhibit A to a judge. "Each bag was sealed tight. You know— yellow plus blue makes green. My Howard, ziplocked as tight as tight could be.
"And Debbie was using the Mickey Mouse phone. That was the truly horrible part. I heard every word. She sold Howard's brain to a man in Germany. I think he was a scientist. Debbie called him a cyber-something-or-other, I remember that much. God knows what he'll do with it! And Howard's heart... his dear, dear heart went to a producer of the most base kind of horror film, a silly fellow who was always jealous of my Howard's wit and subtlety. Why, Debbie laughed so when she talked to him. You should have heard her! And each time she completed a call, she'd address another label and slap it onto one of the plastic bags."
"I'd like to believe you, Mrs. Duncan," I said, my hand on hers. "But you must know that your story sounds just slightly more than incredible."
"It happened!"
"I'm not saying that it didn't. But how did it happen? That's what I need to know. That's what will make me believe your story." I paused, looking for a way to get her back on track. "It's easy enough for me to believe that a murder occurred here. But the rest of it... For instance, how did Debbie manage to steal your husband's body? There was a funeral, an open casket, if I remember the newspaper accounts...."
"Nonsense! If you've ever read my Howard's stories, you know just what kind of unscrupulous scoundrels undertakers are!"
"Now, Jenny — "
"Debbie sold my husband! Her own father! Bit by bit! Everything except his right hand... his WRITING hand. She boiled that in a big pot until the flesh bubbled away, and she's hidden the bones down in the basement in a manuscript box. She's going to sell those bones, one by one." Her eyes were wild, but calculating. "Tell me. Detective, just how many bones are there in a HUMAN HAND!"
"I'm not quite sure — "
"Anything for a dollar! That's the way it is in the world today! Anything for a daughter... I mean... oh, damn... ANYTHING FOR A DOLLAR!"
Jenny Duncan had a tight grip on the butcher knife. She pounded the table. The Mad Hatter teacups danced toward the edge, and I didn't know whether to rescue them or run.
In a moment it became apparent that I didn't need to worry about the knife.
Debbie Duncan stepped into the kitchen, her arms cradling two grocery bags.
And Mother Duncan lunged.
Debbie was a large girl, but she managed to stumble out of harm's way.
Something had to give, but it was only the paper grocery bags. They tore as Debbie moved. Oranges bounced, sour cream splattered, beer bottles shattered. Jenny turned to make a second attack, slipped in a puddle of sour cream and beer, and stumbled forward.
The blade buried itself in the wall, bisecting the least intelligent of the Seven Dwarves, and Jenny fought to free the weapon while her daughter's eyes shot daggers in my direction.
I was about to say something when Jenny lurched away from the blade, defeated. Her flowery dress had slipped off of one knobby shoulder, but her blue hair was perfect. "It doesn't matter," she said, throwing up her hands. "It doesn't MATTER." She shook a finger at her daughter. "I've told this young man about your double-dealings, Debra. I've made him quite aware of just how you sold off your father, BIT BY BIT."
"Mother, why should I care what you've told this — " again the daggers slashed me " — this man.”
Jenny grinned. "He's a policeman, Debra. He's a detective! This is DETECTIVE Raymond, and he's going to take you to jail!"
Debbie laughed long and hard, and her mother turned to me.
I shrugged. "Jenny, I never actually said that I was a policeman... let alone a detective."
Debbie was howling now. Jenny rushed past her and grabbed the Mickey Mouse phone, but that only made Debbie laugh harder.
Jenny yanked the handset from Mickey's grip. "GET ME THE POLICE!" she screamed. "I MUST SPEAK TO THE CHIEF OF DETECTIVES!"
"Shouldn't we get that away from her?" I asked, but my words only brought tears to Debbie's eyes.
Jenny stabbed the telephone key-pad with arthritic fingers.
She punched O.
Mickey screeched, "Operator! Operator!"
She pressed 9.
Goofy chortled. "Number pleeeeze!'
She punched 1, again and again and again.
And Donald Duck hissed laughter for quite some time.
It wasn't easy for Debbie to get the pills down her mother's throat, but she managed it.
"Maybe you shouldn't give her anything," I said. "She had two glasses of sherry."
"Only two?" Debbie's voice dripped sarcasm.
We carried Jenny upstairs and put her to bed. I spotted a photo of Howard Duncan on her night table as I turned away, and I have to admit that it made me shiver.
I felt better when we were back in the kitchen. The tea was cold, but I helped myself to another cup.
"Make yourself right at home," Debbie said, still with the sarcasm.
I ignored her, staring at the knife embedded between Dopey's startled cartoon eyes. "And I thought your father was supposed to be the one with the wild imagination."
Debbie pulled the knife out of the wall and tossed it into the sink. "Oh, thank you for that, Mr. Meleski. Or should I say, Detective Raymond?"
"You're not going to hold a little play-acting against me, now are you?"
Debbie turned away. I got a dose of my own patented silence.
"C'mon, Debbie," I said. "No real damage, right? So I got here a little early. So I tried to do a little fishing with your mom. Nothing really came of it. No harm done, except to old Dopey over there on the wall, and he's still smiling... Hey, you should be happy to have me here. I've scoped things out. I think you'll find that when I crunch the numbers, my offer on the books and paintings in the living room alone is going to be more than generous."
She stood there at the sink for longer than I liked. When she turned to face me I could tell it was trouble, because she had the knife in her hands "No deal, Ray," she said. “Not after what you just put me through. The problem with you is that you have no shame. You can go find yourself another hearse to chase. Writers and movie stars die all the time in this town."
I sighed. "Yeah, they die. Sometimes they even get murdered."
Something flashed in her eyes, but I don't know what it was. Guilt, or fear, or maybe even greed.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.
"Just this— the human mind works in strange ways. Your mom's really mixed up right now. Talking to imaginary policemen on a toy phone." I shook my head. "Y'know, she actually convinced herself that you chopped your father into little pieces and sold him to collectors. Can you believe that?"
Debbie didn't say a word.
"It's a funny thing. The pills, the sherry... they've got your mom all mixed up. But dry her out and who knows what she might remember. She might recall that you made some phone calls inquiring as to the value of your father's memorabilia before he had his accident. Maybe those calls could be documented with your long-distance bills. And maybe those conversations were completely innocent, completely coincidental. Let's face it, old people tumble down staircases and die all the time. I'm not saying that a few phone bills could prove anything — "
"You're right about that."
"Maybe," I said. "But a stack of phone bills and an old lady's testimony would sure make things interesting in the courtroom, and in the newspapers."
Debbie stared at the knife for a long time.
I have to admit, it was a lot to absorb all at once.
Finally, Debbie started to cry.
"Does she really think..." she began, sobbing. "Does she really think... that I could cut up my own father?"
After we talked business, Debbie took some pills of her own and went to bed. I went out to my car and got my camera. I photographed the front door and the brass dragon doorbell — those items would stir some fierce bidding, I was sure, just as I was certain that Debbie would be perfectly happy with a completely ordinary front door from Home Depot. I photographed the paintings in the living room, and then I got a little nostalgic and sat down with a nice mint copy of that Howard Duncan collection, the one with the story about the murdered cuckold bursting through the basement floor.
Two hours later, I closed the book and a little chill crept up my spine. To think that I'd traded my copy for a dog-eared deck of cards. A Howard Duncan first edition, good for five hundred bucks on today's market.
I decided I'd hit the kitchen again and photograph the Disneyania. A little bit of silence-as-arm-twisting during our negotiations and I could probably get Debbie to throw in the whole shebang at a bargain price. It didn't take a head-shrinker to figure that the Mickey phone and all the rest of it would have more than a few negative connotations for Debbie in light of the afternoon's events.
I shot two rolls, thirty-six exposures each. Every now and then I went over to the Mickey phone, pressed a button, listened to Donald or Mickey or Goofy or Minnie, and laughed.
I figured I'd just about seen all of it when I heard a clock chime.
It wasn't Dumbo. I followed the noise. Twelve chimes, so I had plenty of time.
I discovered a little hallway that veered off from the blind side of the refrigerator.
There was a phone on the wall, but it was light that I wanted. I found the switch and flipped it on.
A wooden stairway descended into a basement.
And, yes, the basement had a stone floor.
My step was light as I moved across the cold stones. You see, I was expecting that patented Howard Duncan twist. But somehow I made it across the basement without rousing any vengeful corpses. The most dangerous thing I discovered was a spider web, and I was kind of distressed to find out that it, along with its occupant, were real.
The web was in my way. I slapped at it and stepped on the spider. It seemed that I was bound and determined to tempt fate.
That was how it seemed. Not how it was.
With the spider out of the way, I bent low and peered at several manuscript boxes stored on a series of low metal shelves. An old lady's voice unspooled in my memory.
"Debbie sold my husband! Her own father! Bit by bit! Everything except his right hand... his WRITING hand. She boiled that in a big pot until the flesh bubbled away..."
One by one I opened the boxes. My throat was dry; I was sweating.
"...and she's hidden the bones down in the basement in a manuscript box."
I found novel manuscripts, screenplays, unpublished short stories, not at all what I wanted.
And then my fingers closed around the final box, ever so gently.
I figured that I should savor the moment. I was going for broke, and it was wonderful.
"She's going to sell those bones, one by one."
I shook the box.
It was music — the sweetest rattling I had ever heard.
"Tell me, Detective, just how many bones are there in a HUMAN HAND!"
God, how I wanted to know the answer to that question.
I opened the box. Saw the straight white shafts, each one almost glowing under the fluorescent lights.
Each one a pencil.
"Damn you, Howard Duncan," I said.
And then, shivering in spite of myself, I started to laugh.
TYRANNOSAURUS
SHE SAT IN THE BACK OF THE POLICE CAR. The deputy sat up front, his face too white in the harsh glow of fire engine headlights. Her ex-husband's car stood in stark silhouette between the two county vehicles. With its trunk sprung open, the scorched Honda reminded her of a dinosaur skull.
Jaws open wide, ready to snap.
Tyrannosaurus, the killer dinosaur. That was the one it resembled.
"Can't we do this in the house?" she asked. "It was self-defense. You have to believe that. If I hadn't ended it tonight, he would have come back again."
"We have to get your story, Mrs. Rose."
"I changed my name after the divorce. It's Janet Perkins."
"Okay, Ms. Perkins."
"Can't we do this inside? I want to see my son."
"It won't take long. Really. Just a few questions. And it has to be done."
"Okay... okay. Let's g
et it over with."
"The man in the Honda is your ex-husband?"
"Right. I told your boss that the bastard would come after us. Parole. What a stupid idea. After what he did to Sean in that motel room, and the threats he made — "
"Sean? That's your boy's name?"
She nodded. "And I hate to admit it, but Jack Rose was Sean's father."
"You say that Rose made threats — "
"Not recently. A tabloid reporter got under his skin before the trial. Jack exploded—just verbally, but it was an explosion nonetheless. He wised up after that, especially when he went in front of the parole board. But how they could look at the pictures of Sean in the burn ward and let Jack out of jail, especially when he'd made those threats... It just doesn't make sense."
"Yeah. I remember the story. I followed it in the papers. How brave your boy was, undergoing all those skin graft operations. I want to tell you, that's real bravery."
"Thanks. He's a tough kid."
The deputy nodded. "Why don't you take me through what happened tonight, step by step, and then we'll see where we go from there."
She looked through the window. A light mounted on the fire engine scanned the gravel driveway. The tire still lay to one side of the charred Honda, half hidden by the tall weeds that bordered the driveway. The jack lay next to it. So did the empty gas can. Firemen scurried around, their faces masked against thick black smoke.
"I'm glad the windows are up," she said. "The smell must be-"
"Let's talk about tonight."
"Okay." She took a deep breath. "I finished work at seven. I'm a bartender at the Iron Horse, and the boss takes over for the night shift."
"That's a long commute. Why don't you live in town?"
"Part of the plan. First I changed my name, then I went rural. I figured it would be tougher for Jack to find us out here in the boonies. Besides, I like it here. We've got a few neighbors, and they watch out for us."
Bad Intentions Page 22